


They Say Love Is Pain, Well Darling, Let’s Hurt Tonight

by innusiq



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 06:45:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12906372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innusiq/pseuds/innusiq
Summary: Steve isn’t one to whine and bemoan about life not being fair, because if he were, that’s all he’d have ever done his entire life.





	They Say Love Is Pain, Well Darling, Let’s Hurt Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the One Republic song "Let's Hurt Tonight." I started writing this after hearing this song more than a few months back (like mid-August) and it's been haunting me since.

The night is still warm, the heat from the day seemingly trapped within the buildings lining the streets they trudge through, stagnant and oppressive, weighing heavy in the air and causing the back of his shirt to cling against damp skin. Stubbornly Steve carries his coat within the crook of his arm because he doesn’t need it, much to Bucky’s mother-hen ire insisting Steve “Just wear the damn thing” to ward off catching his possible death, to which Steve shouts back, “I’m not a fuckin’ child. Just leave me alone,” which of course receives a derisive snort from Bucky in return. Steve counts steps as they go, ignoring Bucky the entire way, one, two, ten, thirty, ninety-nine, it’s a long walk in steps alone that is only hindered further by Steve’s slower pace due to his increased limp and less than adequate lungs, that are bad on a normal day but following a back-alley fisticuffs, it’s everything he can do to keep his breaths steady as they cross the distance toward home. Steve hates every minute of silence festering between them. This isn’t the first walk they’ve made in the exact same manner, for the exact same reason, and much to Steve’s chagrin and the past always foreshadowing the future, this certainly won’t be their last, no matter how much Steve wishes this never repeated again.

_This_ being another night of following Bucky’s lead against his better judgment because he can’t say no. _This_ being another night out with Bucky’s current interest of the week and her friend on a double date down at the dancehall in which Steve restrains any hope of the night turning out differently than any other night Bucky’s drug him out before. No matter what Bucky tells the girl, there is no hiding the disappointment flashing in his date’s eyes the moment they’re introduced. There is no hiding the glare the girl flicks over to her friend after realizing she’s received the _short_ end of the stick. No matter how hard Bucky smiles, and pushes, gushing over how talented Steve is with drawing, or how selfless he is going out of his way with helping this neighbor or that neighbor. No matter how often Bucky tries to turn the conversation back in Steve’s direction it never stays there, both girls preferring to engage with Bucky, so much so that when Steve makes to exit, neither girl is the wiser and Bucky’s too much a gentleman to follow suit, not that Steve would want his friend bow out of the evening anyway. After all, there’s no reason for them both to strike out this night, and of course Steve’s luck having never been the greatest in the first place, as he makes his way from the dancehall he runs across an altercation between a not so gentlemanly fella and a fully resisting girl that he can’t turn his back on. It always ends (or really begins for him) the same, said girl running off with little more than a thank you thrown over her retreating shoulder, and him backed into the wall of some dark alley giving not so much as good as he gets for his troubles but at least giving the all he’s got, that is until Bucky comes around to save his sorry ass, _again_.

He releases a raspy breath, one Bucky thankfully doesn’t comment on, when they round the corner and their tenement comes into view. They’ve still got another two blocks to go, but they’re closer than when they started out. Pausing a moment, Steve shakes his shoulders to disburse the growing ache from his hunched stature and attempts standing a little taller (or as tall as his spine can allow) before pushing on without even glancing back. Steve even picks up his pace, in no real effort to gain any distance from Bucky, but to simply get home because like it or not, he is exhausted and wants to put this day to end. There’s no pause as he reaches the corner of their place, or when he makes his way down the side of the building to the rickety exterior stairs and walkways that lead up to their second floor room, but he does get halted when he can’t find his own key (forgetting he left without it being on his person because Bucky said, “Come on, wer’ runnin’ late an’ we don’ wanna keep the girls waitin’. Got mine anyway, not like wer’ gonna get separated or nothin’”). Cursing quietly at the huffed amusement behind him, Steve waits for Bucky to fish out his own key and reach around to unlock the door before storming it and nearly slamming the door in Bucky’s face.

Bucky catches the door ahead of it making contact, causing Steve to feel instantly regretful over taking his anger out on his best friend, but then Bucky continues to saunter in easily as a cool breeze on a warm Summer day, rankling Steve up again and further so when an order is delivered once the door is closed.

“Sit.”

Steve’s shoulders rise in defiance as he makes his own way to the sink that marks their kitchen area to grab the worn cigar box that serves as a makeshift first-aid kit before Bucky can. His mom was a nurse for God’s sake and he knows how to patch himself up just as well as Bucky, if not better. He doesn’t need anyone’s pity or sympathy, especially not Bucky’s.

“I said,” Bucky tries again, grabbing hold of Steve’s wrist to halt his movements and pointing to their sorry excuse of a kitchen table set (barely a set with only two chairs that don’t match the table or each other), “sit.”

Pulling his arm away and rubbing where Bucky previously grabbed, Steve glares up meeting an equally stubborn set of eyes directed right back at him, though Bucky’s soften when realizing the reason Steve keeps rubbing his wrist is it still being sore from the earlier altercation Bucky had broken up. Steve too is now just noticing the ghost of a shiner developing on Bucky’s right cheek for his own efforts in the scuffle and feels guilt being taking shape over his previous anger.

“Please, just sit,” Bucky quietly pleads, gesturing again to the their kitchen set. “I’ll get the kit and have ya patched up in no time. Please…”

And like that, the anger he’s been carrying the entire way home (the anger it sometimes feels he’s been carrying his whole God damned life) dissipates, shoulders dropping as his head dips to look at the floor and then back up to meet Bucky’s eyes again through his hanging blond fringe. “Buck… I can do it myself.”

Bucky shakes his head, looking down himself before catching Steve’s eyes again and saying, “I know ya can. I know, but ya don’t hav’ta, okay? I can take…”

“I don’t need ya fuckin’ takin’ care of me!” Steve shouts, anger rising just as quickly as is left, even if he knows better (should know better) what Bucky’s intentions are, yet even knowing he can’t help the niggling edge of doubt all the same. “I don’t need ya treatin’ me like some charity case, Buck. I don’t need ya feelin’ sorry for me or takin’ pity on the pipsqueak who doesn’t know when ta keep his trap shut or can barely survive a change in season without a call for last rights. I don’t…”

“I know!” Bucky shouts back, hands pitching into the air and cutting Steve off as he takes steps into Steve’s personal space. “Don’cha think I fuckin’ know that? Yer the strongest person I ever met, Steve, and God knows ya don’t need me fer nothin’. God knows it’s _me_ needin’ _you_ , not the other way ‘round. I do this, I do all this, _everythin’_ not for you but _me_. Truth is, I’d be nothin’ without ya. Without ya I’d just be another dumb schmuck barely gettin’ by, day by day, waitin’ for my number ta be called by good ‘ol Uncle Sam. Ya… ya make me wanna be a better fella than the ones ya chase down alleys pickin’ fights with. Ain’t anyone in their right mind got any right ta feel pity fer _Steve Rogers_ , and if they ever did, they deserve a hard right.”

“Buck,” Steve whispers, throat tight as he looks up at his friend, his _best_ friend, his best _everything_ really, but then squawks as he’s swiftly lifted off his feet and sat on the corner of their worn-yet-sturdy kitchen table.

“Now,” Bucky says sternly but shaking Steve’s shoulders gently, eyes begging, _pleading_ for Steve to let him have this. “Just sit there and I’ll get the kit.”

Steve concedes with a nod, receiving a small, appeased smile in return before Bucky turns and takes the two strides necessary to reach the cupboard above the sink where their makeshift kit is kept. There is a pause in Bucky’s movements as he leans against the sink, Steve watching Bucky’s broad shoulders rise and fall in a deep breath before his friend reaches up to retrieve the kit, the hinges of the cupboard door squeaking through its swing open and close. 

“Alright, let’s see the damage done ta’ tha’ pretty face of yer’s,” Bucky jokes, coming up to stand between Steve’s spread knees while setting the kit down next to his left thigh and then moving to strike a match and light the candle on their kitchen table (the one that will need replacing soon as the wick is barely half an inch from the hand-me-down holder) before moving it closer to Steve’s right thigh and straightening up.

“Ah, ain’t all tha’ bad,” Bucky further surmises, fingers gently tilting Steve’s head this way and that into the flickering candle light, eyes skating over and cataloging said _damage_ , all the while Steve praying the shadows from the barely there light hide the blush he can feel rising beneath his skin. “This is gonna sting.”

No matter how many times Steve finds himself in this position, being stitched up after another tussle where he ends up on the not so wining side (albeit always the _right_ side), that first dab of disinfectant always garners the same reaction of sucked in breath followed by its hissed out release. It smarts each and every time, but always stands as a reminder of survival, of there being another day to fight the good fight to make a difference to at least one person’s life in the world.

“Ya’d think by now ya’d be used ta this,” Bucky jokes through a quiet snort, continuing to dab at the open wounds and bandaging only the worst due to their meager supplies running low.

“Yeah, well, _Nurse Barnes_ , I’d’ve thought by now ya’d’ve learned ta be a bit more gentle,” Steve teases back, hissing again at a rougher dab he knows was on purpose but isn’t too bothered all the same.

“Darlin’, I’m always gentle,” Bucky grins suggestively as if forgetting himself a moment, a look Steve’s seen directed many a time at the girl lucky enough to find herself on Bucky’s arm for a night, before the smile slips off, morphing into a more serious and concerned set as Bucky continues administering to Steve in reserved silence.

Steve eventually averts his eyes and begins picking at a loose string at the seam of his best (albeit shabby) Sunday trousers and it isn’t until Bucky is closing the lid of their cigar box turned first-aid kit that Steve looks back up, working up to the apology he feels due his best friend after ruining yet another carefree night out.

“Sorry, Buck,” Steve mumbles through his tight chest as his eyes dash away towards the apartment shadows behind Bucky, wishing he could rewind back to the dancehall, to give Bucky the night on the town he deserves after a long week of pushing crates and whatnot around down at the docks, pulling more than his own share of the weight of living for the both of them.

“Wha’cha got ta’pologize for?” Bucky asks, taking hold of their kit and moving to return it to the cupboard. “Far’s I can tell, it’s the asshole in the alley who’s got ta’pologize here, no way in hell ya got anythin’ ta’pologize for.”

“Ya didn’t have’ta come after me, Buck,” Steve interjects, looking back at Bucky who has already returned to his previous position in front of Steve. “I ruined yer night… like I always do.”

Bucky takes in a deep breath and releases it through a heavy sigh, head ducking and shaking back and forth once before he’s meeting Steve’s eyes again, hand reach out and thumb stroking over the tender spot on his cheek, a bruise Steve is certain will be there (if not already) by morning. “Think I made it pretty clear tha’ there ain’t no way ya could ever ruin anythin’.”

This time it’s Steve ducking his head, swallowing past the lump in his throat and trying desperately to reign in the hope threatening to bloom in his chest (trying and failing miserably). 

“But what about the girl… and dancin’… ya love dancin’, and deserve a night out, lettin’ loose and enjoyin’ yerself, not chasin’ me down and patchin’ me up like always.”

Bucky snorts, shaking his head again. 

“Listen, I’m gonna let ya in on a little secret,” Bucky says, not so much whispering, but leaning in as if keeping their conversation private from other people who aren’t even in the room. “A night at the dancehall, executin’ moves in time with the band… it’s sometimes somethin’ I need after a week spent followin’ orders fer a pittance pay…”

“That’s why…” but his attempt at another apology is cut off.

“Le’me finish,” Bucky insists, straightening up, but not putting any more distance between them. “Yeah, I like dancin’, it’s a great way ta let off steam after a long week, but tha’s all it is, ‘cause the person I’m spinnin’ ‘round that room is never who I wan’ it ta be.”

“Buck…” 

Steve isn’t one to whine and bemoan about life not being fair, because if he were, that’s all he’d have ever done his entire life. Instead of giving in to what people expect of a person who is basically alone in the world with no relatives to speak of and a list a health ailments longer than his own height, he’s always lived the lift the bootstraps and soldier on lifestyle, picking fights to not only prove his worth to the world but also defend those not strong enough to defend themselves (even if he is barely strong enough to win in the end). His body has let him down so many times in his short life, he’s never really allowed himself have hope that something he’s wanted ever being attainable, and Bucky… Steve’s wanted Bucky since he’d reached the age of understanding what wanting another person even meant and felt like, and then being forced to watch any girl who had their eye on Bucky get the chance time and again at what Steve only ever wanted one shot at served as a reminder that his life really wasn’t fair. So Bucky saying this now, implying things Steve never allowed himself to think possible could possibly be _possible_ , well, it isn’t really fair now either. 

“Buck…” Steve doesn’t whine again, looking down at his hands twisting in his lap, knowing if he even meets Bucky’s eyes there’s no hiding what he’s thinking (what he’s feeling) at that moment.

“Hey, c’mon,” Bucky nudges, hand coving Steve’s nervous ones. “Someone owes me a dance.”

“What!” Steve starts, wide, startled eyes meeting Bucky’s. “What, Bucky, no…”

“Ya sayin’ ya don’ wanna dance with me?” Bucky asks, pulling at Steve’s hands, leading him to slide off the table and stand on his own two feet.

“No… Wha… Bucky, I can’t…”

“Ya can’t or ya won’t?”

“Can’t,” Steve insists, trying to twist his hands free. “I can’t Buck, you know I can’t dance… not like you. One verse and my lungs’ll be toast.”

“Dancin’s not just about the fast moves, ya know,” Bucky chuckles as he lets go of Steve’s hands, taking a few steps backwards but maintaining sight of Steve as he slips off his faded, blue suit jacket. “Sometimes, it’s just about bein’ close to the one you wanna be close to. So…shall we?”

Steve looks between Bucky’s outstretched hand and his open and honest eyes, the ones that look hopeful and maybe a little scared, or a lot scared if they’re saying anything near the matching erratic and frantic rhythm beating in Steve’s own chest. 

“Buck, there’s… there’s no… no music.”

Bucky shrugs, grabbing one of Steve’s hands again, thumb brushing over the top in a calming motion and offering a coaxing smile before pulling Steve forward. “I guess we’ll just hav’ta make due, like always.”

Steve’s wide-eyed as his hand is led to Bucky’s shoulder and released so Bucky can wrap one arm around Steve’s waist as his other hand take’s hold of Steve’s own free one. He sucks in a sharp breath when Bucky pulls him in even closer, feeling lightheaded and like he’s dreaming, where any minute he’ll wake to the crushing blow that this isn’t and will never happen. Forehead pressed against the front of Bucky’s shoulder, Steve concentrates on breathing, not because he’s on the edge of an asthma attack, but to settle his heart ramming itself against his breastbone.

“Ya’ll right there, Pal?”

He nods, not lifting his head from its perch against Bucky’s shoulder in fear of bursting this perfect, little, _private_ bubble of a moment that could only happen behind closed doors and can really be nothing more than tonight, even if Steve wishes it could go on forever. Then Bucky starts humming a slow tune and directing Steve’s body to sway along to the notes, all causing Steve’s throat to tighten again as he chokes out Bucky’s name.

“Buck…”

“Shhh,” Bucky hushes, looking down as Steve finally looks up, barely able to make out the contours of Bucky’s face in the flickering light of the candle, but catching the curl of a mischievous smile and eyes that look happier than Steve’s ever seen. “Let it happen, Steve. Let us have this.”

Instead of arguing against what they shouldn’t be doing, Steve rests his ear against Bucky’s chest and listens to the vibration of whatever song Bucky continues humming, forehead pressing up against Bucky’s neck, hiding, and sighs as he lets go and allows this, whatever _this_ is, to happen because he knows no matter what they may want, when the light of day peeks its way into the morning sky, whatever _this_ really is will cease to be. 

So in that moment, they sway to the tune that is one of Bucky’s favorites, Steve stepping on Bucky’s feet only a handful of times, and enjoy the comfort and security of being held in each other’s arms. When Bucky gets through one song, he starts up another just as slow, Bucky holding him a little closer and Steve squeezing Bucky’s hand a little tighter. And in true form of how unfair Steve’s life really is, it was inevitable that Steve would find himself falling deeper into the rabbit hole of loving his best friend.

The second song ends with a yawn on Steve’s part and Bucky huffing out an amused chuckle.

“Okay, okay, let’s ge’cha ta bed,” Bucky says, placing a quick peck to Steve’s forehead as they part. “You get the candle. I’ll make sure wer’ locked up.”

They go their separate ways, Steve blowing out the candle and moving it next to the stove and Bucky locking the door, but they meet back up by their budged up beds where they take up spots on opposite sides to begin undressing in preparation for sleep. It’s not like they have much to speak of in possessions, Steve himself having to wear trousers at least twice or three times before washing to last through the week, so they both take care in hanging their clothes for another wear before climbing into bed down to their boxers and undershirts (both of which having seen better days) and settle quickly. 

Steve’s ends up on his back and staring up at an unseen ceiling, any chance of sleep seeming far off due to the overwhelming thoughts taking up residence no matter how tired he is. He thinks about everything Bucky has given him: unconditional friendship that leads his friend head first into the fire more often than not; emotional and monetary support that provides Steve a better chance (yet still no guarantee) of survival when his body lets him down time and again; and family, not just after his mom passed, but long before the entire Barnes family embraced the small Rogers clan as if they were just distant cousins who’ve always been part of the family. 

Steve’s thoughts then take a turn to all the things he’s stolen from Bucky too: his youth, forcing a far too young Bucky to grow up quicker than he should have, remembering too many prayers being repeated next to his fevered body and the tear stained cheeks the mornings after the worst nights when Bucky had literally cried himself to sleep; Steve definitely knows Bucky could afford better living conditions if he wasn’t saddled by some death-bed promise (because Steve had accidentally overheard that conversation between his mom and Bucky, never wanting to be too far from her in the last days), a promise Bucky is too proud to renege on no matter how many times Steve’s tried to push his friend away; the freedom to just be a carefree, twenty-something guy who could go out dancing, meet _Miss Right_ to settle down with and start a family of his own, and make his mom and dad proud of the honorable man he’s grown to become…

“Yer thinkin’ too much again,” Bucky yawns out, breaking the silence as his hand reaches across the distance to settle in the crook of Steve’s arm, giving it a gentle tug. “C’mere.”

It doesn’t take much effort as Steve scoots the short distance that finds him more on Bucky’s mattress than his own, curling up facing Bucky rather than assuming their normal back to chest position when this closeness is more for heat sharing in the dead of winter than the comfort it offers now. _Another moment stolen_ , Steve thinks as he rubs at his nose with the back of his wrist, eyes stinging as he fights against any tears slipping free but learns quickly how he’s lost that battle at the press of dry lips against his forehead and a thumb brushing one away.

“What’am I gonna do with ya?” Bucky chuckles quietly, sleepily, pulling Steve in closer, arms wrapping around Steve’s smaller frame and resting his chin on the top of Steve’s head. 

“Ya shouldn’t hav’ta do anythin’, Buck,” Steve whispers, curling tighter into himself, wishing he could just disappear and let Bucky live the life he’s meant to have, the life he deserves, because no matter how many times Steve’s tried to push Bucky away, force his best friend to make that decision to leave, choosing to cut ties himself and walking away from his best friend is the one thing Steve selfishly isn’t strong enough to do himself. 

“Yer right, I don’t,” Bucky murmurs, pulling Steve even closer with one leg possessively curing around Steve’s own and adding, “but I’m gonna keep doin’ what I do, and yer gonna keep doin’ what you do, and wer’ gonna keep takin’ care of _each other_ , til the end of the line, right?”

Steve sniffs once, hands reaching out to clutch at the fabric of Bucky’s undershirt as he curls up even closer, nodding in return because he doesn’t trust his voice, but if there’s one thing in this whole entire world he can trust it’s Bucky’s promise that there ain’t nothing that can break _them_. No matter the time that passes, or the distance that may separate them in the future, or the heated words thrown back and forth between them at times, they will always remain, Bucky and Steve, _’til the end of the line_.


End file.
